mirrored conflict
by Punzie the Platypus
Summary: 'They are nothing alike and should hate each other/But they don't.' A poetical commentary about the conflict-filled relationship between Kylo Ren and Rey. 'She'd taken his hand the first time/She had given him hope that she would take it again.' Spoilers for The Last Jedi!


_**Soli Deo gloria**_

 **DISCLAIMER: I do NOT own Star Wars.**

 **Guess who saw The Last Jedi in theaters! And got inspired! :D**

 **This is Kylo Ren and Rey, BTW.**

* * *

He was dark and she was light. They were on completely different sides of the spectrum.

There was nothing, _nothing_ the same between them.

Blue flashed in his cold, bottomless eyes as her blade flashed against him, trying in vain but fueled with determination to vanquish that look, to kill the red blade he was pressing closer and closer into her.

His red blood stained the dark forest floor, glowing in the dirty snow. The night sky, awash in darkness and fumes, was full of stars.

She disappeared among those stars.

. . .

The next time they met, they'd meet in battle. They couldn't meet the other's eyes and relinquish the opportunity to take them down.

There was personal vengeance, a deep, vengeful hatred unique to them against them only, that had to be satisfied. Damn the Rebellion and damn the First Order.

Kylo Ren wouldn't let her best him; but then, Rey would never let him best her, either.

. . .

She should hate him.

She should hate him with a singular, narrow vision. She shouldn't let any feelings, any preying tendrils of sympathy, reach out to him.

She should hate him.

He killed Han Solo.

. . .

He killed his father, in cold blood.

He _murdered_ him.

Ignorant, selfish, man.

If only he knew the lack of love from a father . . .

If only he knew what it was like to be all alone, to just wishfully hope that someday your father will come and save you and hold you in his arms like he'll never let you go—

Kylo Ren had a precious, precious gift.

—and he thoughtlessly squandered it.

Not only squandered it, but scoffed at it and spit at it and ground his heel into it.

Stupid, hateful, _thoughtless_ man.

. . .

Rey should hate him.

Kylo should hate her.

. . .

She wants to step out into the Light Side of the Force.

She wants the clear sun to shine light on all her shadows and lies and mysteries and secrets.

She wants to revel in it.

. . .

He wants to bury himself in the Dark Side of the Force.

The further deeper he dives, the darker it gets.

The light grows weak against the encroaching, overwhelming, all-encompassing darkness.

He wants to bury all his shadows and lies and mysteries and secrets in it.

. . .

They are nothing alike and should hate each other

—but they don't.

Another thing they have in common is they want to forget the past.

Well, to a certain extent.

. . .

She looks back for a glimpse of her parents even as she stares into the night horizon, her eyes hungrily roving for some ship to appear, loaded with loved ones who wanted to take her home.

He looks back for a glimpse of Darth Vader. He looks past his parents' generation, past his father and uncle, and looks for his grandfather. He wants his approval.

He doesn't need his love.

Love's overrated. He just wants . . . approval. That's—that's all . . .

. . .

The next time they met, they didn't meet in battle. They weren't even in the same room. Yet she could see him, clear as day.

He tried not to show that he was as startled as she was.

She shot at him.

He was gone.

A gaping, smoking blaster hole blistered the wall of the Ahch-To stone hut.

. . .

Cold words. Bold words.

Words you can't take back.

Unsettled. They both are. It's not even funny, how much they fail in trying to hide that obvious fact.

. . .

Rey had a weakness.

Well, Kylo regarded it as a weakness. It was the same weakness that marked his mother.

It was mercy. It was compassion. It was empathy.

These were disgusting weaknesses, according to the Dark Side. You would never survive a day in the First Order wearing these pieces of heart on your sleeve.

. . .

Kylo didn't miss these traits. He _didn't._

He _hated_ them. How could he miss them?

Yet . . . when he asked her if his uncle had told her what happened, why did he care about her answer?

Why did he care what she thought about it? What she knew? What she thought of him?

He didn't. He _didn't._

. . .

He didn't want her to understand him.

But he didn't want to be misunderstood.

No.

He was just making sure she knew it was _Luke's_ fault, not his. _Luke_ was the monster of this story, _not_ HIM!

. . .

Darth Vader was his grandfather,

Luke himself thought he was turning to the Dark Side,

The Dark Side waited in his Solo blood.

It waited and bided him time until he could be claimed by it.

. . .

He might have Vader blood in his veins, but there was one thing he couldn't change about himself. He could be Kylo Ren and Snoke's apprentice and a First Order leader and destroy the Rebellion and all the pathetic, puny things they stood for—

—but he was a Solo.

He was not made from bad material. Not when his parents were so _good._

He was not meant to be fully bad. Not while Solo blood fought hard against the Vader blood.

. . .

He couldn't be fully taken by the Dark Side, not while good battled the evil inside him.

He couldn't go to the Light Side, not while evil twisted its greedy fingers around his heart.

So, conflict.

Battling, warring, blood-shedding conflict, waging for dominance.

Brilliant stars fighting for their spots in a dark night sky.

. . .

Conflict.

She was familiar with it.

Ever since that little BB-8 had adopted her as a friend, she'd come face to face with conflict. Conflict on Jakku, battles in the stars, dissension in the Rebellion's ranks—

—conflict in her heart. Conflict in her feelings.

. . .

She just wanted to sneak a peek down that dark hole. Luke warned her of the evil lurking there, but . . . if her parents were down there . . . just a little further in . . .

. . .

Of course she gave in to it.

But she came back.

She pulled herself out of it.

And he didn't.

. . .

He wore his conflict out on his sleeve. He wore a mask, but it didn't shield much.

She hid her conflict well behind a brave face.

But he could see it within her. He could see it no matter how much she tried to hide it.

Like recognized like.

Like recognized a friend.

. . .

Not that they were friends.

They would— _could_ never be friends.

They were enemies, through and through.

Even as she found it in her heart to try to help him. That mercy, that compassion, that supposed weakness—she couldn't fight it. She let it envelope her and push her, fill her with this helpless hope that perhaps, if he wanted to, he could be saved.

. . .

Weakness.

She thought _she_ could save _him._

Part of him wanted to squash that weakness within her. There was so much strength in her, so much unbridled talent and ferocity and passion and power—

If he could just squash that weakness in her—

And yet—

. . .

That same weakness attracted him to her.

He was drawn to her, because (and he would never admit it) he saw himself in her.

He saw that conflict, saw that war of good and evil fighting for dominance.

He saw someone who was caught at a crossroads.

(He would never admit it, but he was caught at a crossroads, too.)

. . .

They both stand at a crossroads.

They stare at each other, panting from exertion, skin hot and wet from the heat of battle.

He extends his hand, just like he had during their last visit together.

Come down this road with me. Don't let's stand in the middle. Let's go down this road, together. Off the beaten path, off of the well-traveled roads _everyone_ else in this entire galaxy has gone down.

Join me. Let's just go, you and me, together.

An end to our conflict.

. . .

She'd taken his hand the first time.

She had given him hope that she would take it again.

He hated hope. It was false and threaded you along and his mother hung everything on it.

Yet he clung to it, like a child to a treasured toy.

He clings to that hope that she will join him.

. . .

She takes a different road.

He takes a step back, and takes a different road.

. . .

They stand in motionless, frozen, red-hot battle.

They stand together in a conflict against the other, in a battle.

Good versus Evil

. . .

In their conflict, shared together, they find their resolution.

Different resolutions, but their own.

. . .

They part ways at the crossroads.

* * *

 **Thanks for reading! What did you think of The Last Jedi?**


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